the magrittes

SOPHIA

I’VE TALKED TO my dad about it, and he tells me not to worry. But how can I not? Francesca is my best friend. She’s like a sister to me.

So I tell my dad my concerns again, and he asks the same question. “Why are you so worried? She might just be busy being a rich girl trying to ditch you.”

But I know my best friend isn’t like that. She’s an angel, all innocent and naive, and it’s my job to protect her from the world.

Innocence is a dangerous thing in this rotten place, and someone like Francesca would hardly ever survive. And that’s what worries me.

After all, I’m the daughter of a cop who deals with crime organizations and specifically human trafficking. I hear the stories—horrible stories. Especially about the three main Mafia families.

Back in university, Francesca always kept to herself. Always studying and never talking to anyone as if she couldn’t.

She had this sadness in her eyes whenever the day ended, as if she never wanted to go home. That’s what makes me suspicious of her rich family. Are they abusive?

I’ve researched the Lastra family, but all that comes up is that her father owns many properties and clubs.

The family doesn’t like making public appearances. They always have smiles on their faces that seem too fake when you look closely.

Again, I tell my dad about my suspicions.

At first, he ignores my words until I persuade him to look further. He then thinks of inviting her over.

In the end, my dad thinks it’s a great idea, and from the worried yet professional smile he gives me, I know he’s going to go all cop on my best friend.

“Dad,” I start, “I think she’s in serious danger. She acts very weird and gets defensive at every mention of her parents.”

“Do you want to get caught up in the drama? I mean, she could be like some gang girl.” My brother means it as a joke, but I don’t like his theory.

Whatever the truth is, I’m never going to leave my best friend’s side.

When I was younger, my classmates bullied me for having different eye colors. One is brown, the other is black, and I was often called the “cross-eyed idiot.”

Francesca is the one who helped me regain my crushed confidence. She told me how lucky I was to have such a peaceful family life, even with the bullies.

The brunette told me that bullies feed off of fear.

I’m going to protect my protector no matter what it takes, and no one is going to stop me. Francesca is my saving grace, and I’ll be hers.

FRANCESCA

“Dinner’s ready.”

Without knocking, Sophia’s older brother barges in. He’s a handsome man and not much older than me—probably around Antonio’s age. No, maybe younger.

I’m so used to ignoring hot guys that it’s almost like a chore.

Sophia’s brother, whom Sophia tells me is named Chris, is extremely good-looking with his chiseled features and spiked-up blonde hair.

But he doesn’t have the same effect on me that my husband does.

“Get out, you moron!” my best friend shouts, her voice making me flinch. I hate loud noises.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Whatever, sis.” He shoots a polite smile at me before stomping down.

“I’m so sorry about him. He’s an asshole,” Sophia apologizes before she throws a white dress back on her bed.

I’m so glad that I’m not changing. It would have been so awkward for him to walk in. Not only that, but I would get in huge trouble.

Since Sophia called me to come early, we’re trying on dresses and clothes. She wants my opinion because apparently she just got a job. I feel bad for not being there for her.

Not thinking I’d ever see her again, I agreed to work together once we were out of school, but now I realize that I shouldn’t have given her any false hope.

“The white dress is very pretty, but it’s more of a party dress than a formal one,” I state, trying to avoid the topic of her brother. I don’t like talking about guys. I’m not allowed to.

“I thought the same too, but it was really pretty and cheap so I was like ‘why not?’ I’ll wear it at your wedding,” she jokes.

I’m jealous of her. She’s so free and confident without even being that rich. But I guess the saying that money doesn’t buy happiness is true. I’ve never believed it does.

I always feel that happiness comes from the people one is with, not one’s status.

If I wasn’t rich and had a happy, normal family like Sophia’s, then I would be more than just happy. I’d be ecstatic.

Freedom is something I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling. University was also Father and the Don’s decision.

If they had wanted, I wouldn’t have even seen the doors of the school. People label school hell, but for me it’s heaven.

“Come, let’s go eat. I’m starving.” Her stomach grumbles at the same time, making me chuckle.

“Yeah, I can hear that.” I smirk. She rolls her eyes playfully.

The stairs make an annoying creaking sound as we both race down. I feel blessed without my heels on. Though I’m used to them, they just aren’t comfortable.

Chris is on his phone and sitting at the square dining table. There’s another man who sits next to him. I feel bad for not meeting them before, when Sophia dragged me upstairs.

“Guys,” my best friend calls. Every pair of eyes snaps to me, making me stand still in discomfort, but I’m wise enough not to show it.

“Confidence is everything. Hold your head up high and smile, daughter,” Father told me once. It was when he was in a good mood and thought I was being obedient.

“Meet my best friend, Francesca. Franci, these are my parents, and you’ve heard about Chris, my brother,” she introduces.

“Aww, you guys talked about me,” Chris interjects, earning a scowl from her.

So this is what normal siblings are like. They get on each other’s nerves.

I’ve known Sophia long enough to know she can’t stand her older brother, but whenever she mentions him, there’s always a softness in her voice.

I’m careful to keep my face neutral, especially with an FBI agent in the room.

I’m not sure if he’s working for my husband or not, but I’m not taking any risks.

“Yeah, I told her what a weirdo you are,” Sophia shoots back.

Chris is about to retort but their mother interrupts him.

“Enough, both of you. You’re giving our guest a bad impression,” her voice is sharp and motherly, but it doesn’t faze me.

Sure, she’s not scolding me, but I should feel a bit intimidated. Yet, I’ve seen so much in my life that she just seems strange.

My situation is far from ideal. “I’m so sorry, dear. These two never know when to quit,” she says, shooting a glare at her children.

She smiles at me warmly. Despite my past experiences with adults, I can tell this woman is one of the kindest people I’ll ever meet.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Magritte. Thank you for having me,” I assure her. Before I know it, she’s crossed the kitchen and is hugging me.

I shift my weight awkwardly before patting her back. I’m not sure how to hug someone without it feeling weird.

“You’re such a sweetheart. We’re lucky to have you here.” She smiles at me before guiding me to the table.

Her husband hasn’t said a word to me and it’s making me anxious, but I hide it well. I offer him a polite smile, which he returns.

“You’re welcome here anytime.” He sounds sincere, but I’m still cautious. He’s a cop. They’re all suspicious. I don’t trust them.

“Thank you, Mr. Magritte.”

“Wow. You bonded with them faster than I have in my twenty-three years.” My best friend looks at me in surprise before grinning.

I laugh. “Your parents are really nice.”

Sophia is about to say something, but stops herself since they’re all there. I feel someone watching me and see Chris looking at me.

He smiles, and I nod in response. He’d better not try anything.

I forget about it when Mrs. Magritte brings out a mouth-watering lasagna with garlic bread. It feels like forever since I’ve had lasagna, and garlic bread is always a treat.

“It smells amazing,” I say, earning a warm smile from her. “Even better than my home cooking.”

“Thank you, dear. You’re too kind. Do you cook, honey?” she asks as she sits across from me.

Mr. Magritte sits at the head of the table with his wife and son on his right. Sophia and I sit on his left. The table is small.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks surprised before smiling again. She seems like the type to smile even if her house was under fire.

She’s a cheerful woman, and I admire that. It’s hard to stay happy.

“That’s great! I respect someone who can cook. What do you usually make?”

“Mostly Italian food. I took classes because their dishes look fancy.” I can’t hide the fact that I’m Italian from the FBI.

I don’t need them doing any background checks. But even if they do, they won’t find anything significant. I haven’t done anything wrong. My family and husband have.

“Why are you guys bonding over food? I feel left out. I can’t cook,” Sophia complains.

“Me neither,” Chris agrees, stuffing his face with bread.

“Me three.” I almost jump at Mr. Magritte’s voice. He seems more relaxed now. He’s not scrutinizing me anymore. I guess he found what he was looking for—nothing.